University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The Neighbourhood of Milan, during a Popular Emeute.
A great band of Insurgents, armed, and singing, pass over. The Monk stands near.
All
(chanting as they march).

[They pass; the Monk steps forth, and stopping some of the rearg uard, speaks.
The Monk.
Would you know
The path of that false tyrant, who enslaved
Your fetter'd land: and, with her outraged beauties
Beaming upon you, made ye glad to die?

Soldier.
Ay, holy father.

The Monk.
Would you know the spot
Where, in the shoutings of his maniac triumph,
He calls his blood-hounds round his gory hands,
And cheers them on the prey?

Soldier.
Since the noon-sun
Shone on the flying Austrians, we have track'd them,
And burn to sup as we have dined. Speak on.

The Monk.
If I could count you man by man, and horse
By horse, and bayonet by bayonet,
And point the very lurking place—

Soldier.
Nay, speak!
The sun sinks, and Milan herself goes down
With to-night's dews. Speak, speak, good father.

The Monk.
Fools!
What! do you take me for some Austrian trull,
At service of the first camp follower
That sues her? Do you think I make my council
Of way-side danglers? Dost betray me, fellow?
Thou pale-faced German knave, if thou art aught
That man may name unblushing, hence and bring me
The leaders of this crew.

One Soldier to another.
Go fetch the captain
Of the tenth troop.

The Monk.
Friend, fetch ten thousand captains,
And march them here to march them back again;
What! dost thou think Milan's great doom is meat
For mouths like thine? Hence, bring your general,
And bid him—as he values absolution
For all that army of unshriven souls
That hope to make their beds in Paradise—
Appear with such attendance as befits
The majesty of freedom. Hence, and tell him
I can show where Milan's great foe is flagrant,
And swear upon my priestly faith, this night
He shall behold him!

[Exit a soldier.
Enter General and crowd of troops.
General.
Sir, and reverend father,
Thou wilt forgive me if I am deceived—
A straggler of our army brought—but now—
An imminent commandment. Was it thine?

The Monk.
Mine.

General.
We do trust thou hast not wrong'd us, father:
Each passing moment that goes by us now
Is full of lives.

The Monk.
I have not wrong'd you. Hear me.
You say you combat for your country—mine,
Yours, every man's in whom the proud high blood
Of the old time still struggles with the present,
And throbs and blushes at degenerate days:
The country of the Cæsars, and the saints,
And, better still, the land of stirring deeds,
Done by rude hands, and heads as yet uncrown'd
In earth or heaven; the lady of the kingdoms—
The soil on which the gods came down, confounding
Their heaven with ours;—restore me if I wander
From your own words—you strike for this dear country?

All.
Die for it!

The Monk.
And the tide that flowed from those
Old Roman veins like empire, so that where
The Roman bled he ruled—the blood that soak'd
His sovereignty into the land he fell on,
Flows in you, and you feel it?

General.
Reverend father,
Time hastes—the news—thine oath—we must hence—

The Monk.
Peace!
Wilt thou direct my gifts, rebellious child?
[Turning to the Crowd.
Say, will you hear me? Will you know the spot
Where the foe lurks I swore to show you?

All.
Speak!

The Monk.
You feel the pulses of the Roman blood,
You think the masters of the world begot
Kings, and not slaves—you come forth with the same
Looks, passions, sinews, souls and giant hearts,
Which in your sires stood round your ancient heroes,
And lifted them to glory on their shields,
—Those heroes worshipp'd by the startled earth,
Who seeing them above you, call'd them gods—
You know the same grand instinct of vast empire,
You stand upon the same Italian ground,
You stand on that same ground, the same proud people,
And the inheritors of ancient worlds,
Shout for Milan! What! will you pay your lives
To buy a freedom girt by fewer acres
Than your old consuls would have thrown away
Upon a birth-day gift? What, has this land,
This Italy, grown smaller, and lacks ground
For such a temple as it once upbore?
Or in your base hearts, shrunk with shameful days,
Is there no space to build a Roman glory?
Go to! you feebler sons of feeble days,
You that would totter with the very name
By which men call'd your sires! Go to, you pigmies,
Who have no more resource in your dwarf nerves,
To know the squalor of your futile limbs,
Than you have sight or soul or sense to compass
The awful stature of a Roman people!
Why do I speak of glory? Italy,
This Italy, which in its length and breadth
Scarce served your fathers for a throne to sit on,
Confounds their children with its vast horizon!
And the posterity of those who counted
Conquests by continents, weigh'd out dominion
By hemispheres, and cast a score of kingdoms
As dust to balance the unequal scale,
Wage comfit combats at a carnival!
Coin fatherlands and farthings; and step out
Their mimic royalties, and make toy princes
Glorious in gilt and gingerbread for kings
At school to play with. Husbandmen in crowns,
Great in the lordship of a Roman field,
Affect the despot, and to trembling townships
Nod sovereignty; with equal hand create
A constitution, country, and court-cook,
Will loyalties, and point with awful finger
Which hedge and ditch shall bound a patriotism!
While Romans smile, and sons of Cæsar farm
Well pleas'd what Cæsar would have deem'd too strait
To breed his wild boars for a hunting day,
And call it Empire!

Enter fresh crowds of Soldiers shouting.
Soldiers.
Long live the republic!
Long live the commonwealth of Lombardy!

The Monk.
Long live eternal Rome! long live that Rome
Which is not dead but sleepeth! long live Rome!
Men, this is the great year of resurrection!
All who are in their graves shall hear his voice,
And come forth! That which twenty centuries hence
Lay down a hero, shall rise up a god!
Shout, countrymen! and wake the graves; shout, Rome!
Republic! Rise!

Many voices.
Down with him, down with him. Viva Milano!

General.
A hearing, comrades!

Many.
Peace! the General speaks!

General.
Priest, at thy peril——

Many.
At thy peril, priest!

General.
Priest, at thy peril, cease these timeless babblings,
Respect thine oath and life. Show us the foe!

Soldiers.
The foe, the foe, the foe——

The Monk.
Each silent man,
When I cry Rome! Each false, base-blooded shouter,
When you cry Lombardy!

Soldiers.
Base-blooded! false!
Base-blooded! false! give him a ball in the mouth!
Milan! Milan! up muskets!

General.
Shoulder arms!

The Monk.
Each self-judged helot, pleased to toil, a Goth,
When he might rule, a Roman! Rome? Rome? Rome?
Bah! by what witchcraft should you know that name,
You Tuscans, Luccans, Florentines, Sardinians,
Parmans, Placentians, Paduans and—slaves?

Soldiers.
Spear him—a pike, a pike!

Some.
Hear the priest!

Others
(with great uproar).
Stone him,
Stone him——

The Monk.
I am a Roman. Let some Vandal
Cast the first stone.